tonight
i placed the sheets over my head
no light
black
black
but my eyes were open
watching
wide
imagining,
seeing things that i shouldn't
my brain drawing
up
demises for my life that can't be stopped.

songs
do not calm me down.
only the brutality
of screaming into my pillow
and crying so hard
that
my eyes hurt and swell and
ache
when they slowly blink afterwards
calms me down
because after that,
i have nothing else to give.
i have no energy left
no emotions
no more excess feelings
that have built up over the day
or days
or week
that need to be set free.

i would love to die
i would like
to go to the top of a hotel
or an apartment building in the busy city
the lit city
the bustling city that's moving
too fast for me
when it's warm at night and dark
gray
in the sky
stars twinkling
my eyes gazing,
swiping over the constellations i do not know.
i would like to sit there
and listen to a sad, simple song on
repeat for
years.
i would like to sit there
on the ledge
for so long that my fear of heights is no more
so i have time
to reminisce
to think
to
to close my eyes
and remember.

i would want the gray night to last forever
i would want to slip into
a universe
where it's always that way.
listening to my song,
swinging my feet over the ledge
as i remember
my family members' faces
the stupid things i've done
my mistakes
my accomplishments
the good
the bad
the significant
how i was loved

and then try to forget,
but fail.

and then jump

and hear the simple song still playing in my head as i fall
cutting through the atmosphere
hear it through the wind screaming in my ear.

and

over

over

it will be over

and that

is how i'd enjoy dying.


under the weeping stars

and

grimacing moon

on the cracked,

stained,

littered

sidewalk

with a beautiful song in my mind

and

beautiful faces as well.

my room smells like a man who you walk by on the sidewalk

who smokes cigarettes for breakfast and then sprays on a few coats of cologne to hide the stink and shame

but in reality the smoke is still with him

it's in his clothes

it's in his hair

it's on his hands

it's stained his mouth

it's festering in his lungs

so

why does he do it?

go through the trouble of trying to sneak past others without letting them know of his habit

without having to talk to them because he knows how bad his breath stinks despite how he brushed his teeth three times

and how his hair stinks even though he rinsed and repeated twice.

because

the smoke envelops him in a comforting, feather soft embrace that only its hands can touch him with

the smoke burns his lungs so he can feel again

and the smoke burns his eyes and nose when he brings the cigarette too close to his face

but that's okay

because the feeling of goodness and sedation afterwards is too rewarding, too addicting.

it's too addicting.

he's too addicted.

he's hurting himself. he's hurting himself.

he's knows it. he does.

but he'd do anything for another one,

another brief vision of clouds (it's just the smoke) in the starry midnight sky,

another hug.

Another hug

another dose of love

another puff.

Another puff.

Another cigarette. And another.